Time and Time Again
by MannequIncorporated
Summary: When Draco disappears to Merlin Knows Where, Harry is left alone to cope with his loss. Meanwhile, a certain blond boy appears in the twelfth century...
1. From the Outset

**Time and Time Again**  
One : From the Outset  
by KissMeDraco

* * *

Disclaimers:  
I don't own Harry or Draco. Other characters I most definitely own. You'll see what I mean later. And I owe it all to J.K.

* * *

"I'm sorry. It has to be this way." 

Draco stepped back, spreading his arms across the charged air. A gradual euphoria filled his chest as an invisible power guided him up in the night. A golden ring circled around him, clouding his vision, blocking everything from his view. A mighty wind blew across the graveyard, sending Draco's fine hair whipping around his face. He closed his eyes, tilting his head back as he rose higher and higher. The golden ring grew in size and intensity as the wind howled between the headstones, until Harry had to close his eyes.

Then it was gone. There was no trace of the event that had transpired save for the slowing wind still searching for a place to hide.

Harry collapsed to the ground, dissolving into tears as, once again, he lost the one he loved.

* * *

Harry settled back into bed, mentally preparing himself for another night of fitful sleep and fevered dreams. It had been almost a month since Draco's ascension, and still he hadn't adjusted to the emptiness of the house. The echo of Harry's voice in the empty house was his only company, save for the sound of the television when it was on.

Harry had also left all of Draco's things alone. The black bathrobe still hung over the dark green towel next to Harry's red and gold set, his pillows were still piled on the ground where he had left them, even Draco's dirty clothes were still in the hamper.

Except for his coat. The long black jacket Harry would touch, sometimes he would put it on, raising the sleeve to his nose and inhaling the scent of Draco--Somewhere between fresh soap and new incense, a lovely combination--and then he would take the coat off and hang it back up in the closet.

It was all useless anyway. Every moment he stayed in this house reminded Harry of something from the five years he had spent with Draco. Even still, he couldn't bring himself to end the torture and move out. He and Draco had moved in together right after their graduation from Hogwarts, making the decision to share their every moment with each other.

Harry's body wasn't helping his case either. It hungered with every cell for Draco's gentle touch, even for a single kiss with which to say goodbye. All the desire and longing took its toll on Harry's existence, so that Harry had barely enough energy left to roll out of bed. He didn't even eat much anymore; his appetite was shot.

Surprisingly, that night he fell asleep rather quickly.

Out of the swirling colours in the void of his mind came one single image emerging--Draco. His skin was extremely pale, but his usually ice-blue eyes glowed with a fiery gold, with an intensity Harry had never seen. His beautiful lips parted, and Harry felt the warm breath of one word forming in the void between them: "Coming..."

Harry woke up with his heart pounding. Coming? What did it mean? The dream was so clear--the only dreams he had experienced that clearly were the old nightmares about Voldemort from his Hogwarts days, and they had turned out true.

A glimmer of hope coursed through his veins. They had turned out true! Whatever it meant, Harry was sure he would see Draco again. Did that mean he was safe? Was he all right?

Well, there would definitely be no more sleep that night. He glanced at the old digital clock--4:43. As good a time as any to wake up. Rubbing his eyes, he slid out of bed into his crimson slippers. He headed out into the kitchen, instinctively opening the fridge. There wasn't anything inside, as usual. He turned to the coffee pot, pulling the coffee out of the cabinet. He opened the package--White Chocolate Mocha, Draco's favourite. Harry winced, pushing the container to the back of the cabinet, trying to push the memories back wth it. Sighing, he pulled out his own coffee--standard, unflavoured, blah coffee. He filled the maker for two cups full, turned it on. The aroma of percolating coffee filled the house, as it had on so many occasions, and Harry was vaguely pleased that at least one thing in his life was stable.

He waited for the coffee maker to growl--an old joke he'd had with Hermione and Ron, God rest their souls--and poured himself a mug half full. He sighed and pulled a bottle of Scotch out from under the sink. Filling the rest of the mug with the scotch, he took a sip.

He gagged and spit it out in the sink. He poured out the coffee, rinsed out the mug, and filled it up with the liquor. He took a large gulp, breathing hard as the drink burned down his throat. He downed the rest of the mugfull, relishing the feeling in his throat.

He grabbed the bottle, collapsing into the sofa. He lifted the bottle to his lips, still savouring the fire. It was really good Scotch, the last of his cache, and Harry really did like Muggle liquors.

The numbness started in, leaving the edges of his vision fuzzy. The man on the telly was selling something, although in his haze he couldn't tell what.

The irony of his life hit him while his defences were down. Every single person he truly trusted had died, leaving Harry alone. His parents had been first, until the fifth year, when Sirius died, and the seventh year, when Hermione had been found dead in the forbidden forest. Her body was mangled and the attacker had never been found. Ron hadn't handled her death well, theh Quidditch team found him hanging in the locker room showers the next day. The only one left for Harry was Draco, and he clung to the boy so tightly and so desperately that Dumbledore had granted them a room together. Harry had only been able to forget once he was with Draco.

And now, of course, the same turn of horrific loss occured all over again. Draco was gone, and Harry's only comfort came in bottles.

It was the dream that puzzled him. Draco's face was the same, it was sure. The difference was in his eyes... Harry had never seen such eyes...

* * *

There was a lovely clearing in a beautiful forest. Without a cloud in the sky, it was a picture-perfect scene. Then, from nowhere, there came a lightning bolt, striking the ground in the exact center of the clearing. In the very epicenter of the strike (which came on a beautifully clear day), a young man appeared, shaking as he tried to adjust to the world around him. He gulped in air in a most undignified manner, trying to calm his quaking body. 

He rushed out toward a dirt path, trying to figure out where exactly he was. He reached for his wand and froze.

His clothing was gone. He hadn't noticed in his haste, but it became clear that he had not a stitch of clothing on his body.

He heard a horse approaching. Ducking behind a bush, he waited for the rider to approach.

It was a MONK. Draco blinked. Why is there a monk in modern England!

No matter. He would have to ask for help. The horse rounded the bend. "Father!" he shouted.

The monk brought the horse to a stop. "Who calls?"

Draco's mind went into rapid fire at a seemingly simple question. If he told him his real name, there would be hell to pay from the ridicule of his name. If the wizarding world were to hear about this, it would be the end of his name. He would go by...Drake, for now. Not hard to remember. The last name would have to wait. "Drake is my name."

The monk smiled. "Pleasure to meet you, Drake. Will you come out?"

"Father, I have no clothing! Do you have any that I may wear?"

The monk's smile disappeared. "You are indecent?"

Draco extended a hand out of the bush. "Any clothing at all?'

The monk sighed and went into his saddlebag. He produced a set of monk's robes, and threw it to Draco's hiding place.

Draco grabbed the robes and, pausing a moment to chuckle at the irony, hastily pulled the robes on. He stepped out of the hiding place.

The monk seemed startled. "Mr. Drake, are you of the nobility?"

Draco laughed. "Of course--" he paused, thinking of the problems that could arise. Malfoys were nobility, truly, but not the kind of nobility that the monk was talking about. "--not. Not at all. Just wealthy, prior to...last week."

The monk seemed to understand. "An all too familiar complaint, when a new king ascends to the throne."

Draco was thoroughly confused. A new king?"

The monk was still talking. "...The king hasn't even been coronated by the Pope yet. It seems we've forgotten how to do things in 1136."

Everything became clear to Draco. He had been placed in a different year. The fact that he could understand the monk indicated that he was probably still in England.

He decided to exploit his current position. "Father, might I stay with you at the monastery, until I can get back on my feet?"

The monk nodded. "The guest house is available, as far as I know."

Draco smiled. "Thank you, Father..."

"...Philip." The monk got off the horse, assisting Draco in mounting (though Draco didn't need the help) and started to lead the horse down the dirt road. "What did they call you by, Drake?"

Draco was at a loss. "Well, you see..."

The monk waved a hand. "Your previous life is not important. I shall call you Drake Morning."

Draco smiled. Drake Morning. It had a ring to it.

* * *

The dream continued. It didn't get any clearer for Harry, but it continued nontheless. He headed to the bathroom, decided to check the scale. He hadn't eaten in a good long time, he wanted to see if he'd lost the weight he put on.

He gasped. He was down fifteen pounds from before... the incident. He decided to eat breakfast.

**

* * *

**

Draco settled into his room. He would have unpacked his belongings if he had had any. As such, he was tired from the day's excitement.

He was surprised at himself. He felt he should be depressed, but he was too thrilled at the concept of living in this century.

He decided he wanted to explore the monastery. Fixing his itchy robe, he headed out to explore.

It was a lovely monastery of wood buildings around a small stone chapel. There were paths running this way and that, and there were lovely plants apparently growing wild around the untraversed areas.

All the buildings seemed to have been constructed at the same time, except for the little building toward the back of the campus. For some reason it caught his attention, while the other places struck him as boring and dull.

He headed straight for the back.

The little shack was downright adorable. Surrounded by clay pots, it even seemed to be clay itself, from all the dust. Draco knocked on the door sharply.

"It's open," a voice called from inside.

Draco pushed the door open, stepping inside. He looked around the place. A bed stood on one side, while a workstation was set up on the other.

A dark-haired man was kneeling at the station. Covered in clay, he was molding the clay into a lovely vase.

He turned and smiled at Draco. "Give me a minute," he said. He dipped his hands and arms in a basin of water, drying them on a rag.

He turned back to Draco, extending a hand. Draco smiled, putting his hand in the man's. He kneeled in front of Draco, planting a sensuous kiss on the back of his hand. Draco felt a tingle down his back as the colour rose into his cheeks.

The man looked up, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "I am Harold," he smirked. "And you are Drake Morning."

Draco was shocked. "How do you know me?"

Harold grinned. "News travels fast at a monastery, especially when the visitor is so beautiful."

Draco's breath caught for a second. "You're--"

"Come with me to dinner," Harold interrupted.

Draco was speechless. He took in the sight of Harold: his shirt stretched around tanned muscles, revealing a magnificent physique. His arms were strong and sinuous, his eyes were sapphires in a setting of dark curls.

Harold's eyes burned into Draco's. "You intrigue me."

His eyes filled Draco's field of vision, as Harold cupped his chin, pulling him closer. Soft lips brushed Draco's as the bristled beard tickled Draco's cheek. Draco felt his knees buckle, and Harold's hands caught him, supporting him effortlessly.

Harold pulled back. "How about dinner?"

Draco was reeling. "I...er..." he stammered, leaning against a wall for support.

Haold's eyes traced over Draco's body, coming to rest on the top of Draco's head.

"It fits," he said, after a long pause.

"!" Draco said.

Harold reached forward, caressing a lock of Draco's hair. "Your hair is like the bright morning sun."

Draco blushed furiously. He shook his head, clearing his mind. "So does everyone new get the white glove treatment?"

Harold frowned. "...White gloves?"

Draco waved him off. "Don't worry about it. Where are we going fr dinner?"

Harold grinned. He toyed with a ringlet from his beautiful curls, probably not trying to be seductive but succeeding anyway. "Hungry, eh? Monks don't eat well enough for you?"

Draco crossed his arms in mock anger. "What are you implying?"

Harold shrugged innocently.

Draco put a hand on one hip. "I have little time for--"

"A scoundrel like myself?" Harold slipped an arm around Draco from behind, resting his chin on Draco's shoulder.

Draco smiled mischeviously. "Now, Harry, you--" he stopped. "Harry!" What?

Harold released Draco. "Who is Harry?"

Draco turned to look at Harold. Realization dawned over him as he looked from the half-finished vase back to Harold. "You work with clay for a living."

Harold nodded; his eyes read confusion.

Draco's heart quickened. "So that would make you Harold--"

"Clay, that's right. You've heard of me?"

Draco's hopes fell.

Harold paused. "But I don't like the sound of that. Harold Clay. I was thinking of changing it to Potter." He smiled. "Harold Potter. It has a bit of a ring to it, doesn't it?"

Draco nodded, too stunned to speak. Could this really be Harry's ancestor? He made a quick visual assessment. Harold's hair was a little too curly, but it was just as messy as Harry's. His eyes were vivid blue, just as the pictures of Harry's father were. His overall size was similar, but his arms were too well defined. Probably a result of years of pottery, Draco surmised.

Well, Draco would never know for sure. He could imagine it if he wanted, though. He missed Harry so much.

"Let's go to dinner, Harold." Draco took Harold's hand, heading for the door.

Harold pulled his hand away. "We are in a monastery, Drake. Don't forget," he smirked.

* * *

Harry stirred on the sofa, waking out of a fitful afternoon nap. He felt a strange and unfamiliar emotion--he felt happy. He suddenly saw a picture of Draco, laughing, smiling.

It seemed so real! Did that mean Draco was alive?

* * *

Harold and Draco arrived at a tavern about an hour later. Harold took Draco's hand, leading him back to a small private room. Discreetness was the key, apparently; the town was small, based around the monastery, and news of indecency had a strange habit of getting back to the monks.

A haggard bar maid came to the room. "What can I get for you?" she grunted out.

Harold looked at Draco questioningly. He shrugged. "We'll have whatever your best is. And two ales."

The woman nodded, showing toothless gums as she grinned. She left to get the food.

Harold looked at Draco, silently asking his approval.

Draco looked around the room, nodding happily. "It's adorable."

Harold shrugged. "It's not much, I know."

Draco took his hand. "It's perfect."

The bar maid returned, holding two mugs of ale, and Harold and Draco slid apart, sitting on the stools on either side of the rough-hewn table.

She seemed not to notice. "Food's almost out," she grumbled as she set the mugs down in front of them.

Draco mumbled his thanks, and the woman stayed standing in front of him, holding out her hand.

Harold smiled, holding out a few coins for the lady. She grunted something incomprehensible and left.

Draco took a tentative sip from the mug of ale, unable to meet Harold's eyes. "Why are you doing this for me?"

Harold smiled at him. "Why not?"

They sat in silence until the food arrived. The old woman brought two steaming plates, each with a whole chicken roasted on a spit. There were vegetables surrounding the chicken; onions, carrots, and others added their unique splash of colour and taste. Draco's mouth watered as the woman set the plate down, providing a large knife to eat with.

Harold payed the woman and she left. Unable to wait for anything, Draco dug in with his knife, ripping pieces of chicken off and pushing them into his mouth. Harold chuckled as Draco ate hurriedly.

"The chicken's dead, you know. It's not going anywhere," Harold laughed.

Draco shot a glare at him and continued eating.

Harold grinned. "The monks don't eat well enough for you?"

Draco took a swig of ale to wash it all down. "Where I'm from, I could eat anything I wanted."

Harold tilted his head inquisitively. "You're nobility?"

Draco weighed his options carefully. "I'm of the...gentry." He paused. "At least, I was. Until the...er...bandits ransacked our house and killed my, er...mother and father."

Harold put a hand on Draco's arm. "Drake...I had no idea."

Draco smiled. "It's all right...I'm all right. It was nothing." Which, in reality, it _was _nothing.

Harold rubbed his arm supportively. "How did you escape?"

Draco sighed. "I wasn't there. I was away, learning...archery."

Harold sat back. "Let's talk about something less morbid."

Draco grinned. "This food is delicious!"

Harold nodded. "It really is good, eh?" He stared into Draco's eyes.

Draco dabbed at his mouth with the hem of his monastic robes, colour rising in his cheeks as Harold's eyes burned into his. The rest of the room faded away as those sapphire orbs captured every bit of Draco's attention.

The bar woman shuffled back in. "What else do you want?"

The trance broke instantly. Draco jumped slightly, then handed his bone-covered plate to the woman, blushing profusely.

Harold laughed softly, handing the woman his own plate. He stood up as she left, helping Draco to his feet. "The monks don't take well to tardiness. Shall we return, love?"

Draco smiled, taking Harold's outstretched hand.

* * *

Draco paused at the door to the guest house, looking back at Harold. He sighed, suddenly feeling awkward. "So..."

Harold smiled deviously. He knelt down in front of Draco, taking his hand. He placed another kiss on Draco's hand, rousing the butterflies from their sleep in Draco's stomach.

Harold stood up, brushing golden strands away from Draco's eyes. "Sweet dreams, love," he smirked, strolling back to his own house.

Grinning, Draco stepped into the guest house. Slipping his robes off, he slid into the bed. Feeling himself relax, he fell quickly into a deep sleep, beginning his first night in the twelfth century.

* * *

Harry felt a pang of hunger, surprisingly, and realized that he didn't remember the last time he had eaten. He checked his calendar--it said June 7.

That couldn't be right. June 7 was--

--The day Draco...left. He refused to acknowledge even the possibilty that he was anything other than alive.

He grabbed the keys to his car and headed out in search of a pub. He was out of Scotch anyway.

* * *

A/N: The story actually is fully written, at least in its first stage. I'm just too lazy to type the whole damn thing at once. This is probably my most complex story ever. It just doesn't seem that way from the outset. If you've finished reading this, please review and tell me what you think!

...Oh yes, and beta readers would be nice. So give me a buzz at this email: _ryoanddee242 at yahoo dot com_


	2. Out Of My Dreams

**Chapter Two**

**Out of My Dreams**

* * *

Disclaimer: I don't own anything except Harold and any other original characters. The songs featured herein are also NOT MINE. No lawsuits, _s'il vous plait._

* * *

Draco woke up smiling. He shifted the cover aside and reached for his wand instinctively. The day before came back to him as he realized he was wandless. He opened his eyes fully, rubbing them groggily.

Harold was sitting comfortably in a chair, smiling.

Draco jumped, pulling the cover back on top of him. "How long have you been here?" he gasped.

Harold laughed. "Long enough, love. Did you know you talk in your sleep?"

Draco blushed, grumbling softly.

Harold stood up. "I'm sorry if you find this a bit sudden, but you've captured my attention." He sat down on the bed beside Draco. "And I have to hand it to you. Not many people manage to do that so quickly."

He cupped Draco's chin, planting a gentle kiss on his lips.

The door opened. "Good morning, Drake--" Philip froze, assessing the situation.

Draco felt his heart sink. He pulled away from Harold reflexively.

"What is the meaning of this?" Philip barked. "Harold, I knew there was something strange about you! I couldn't determine what it was, but now I know! You, sir, should have perished with Sodom and Gomorrah!" He turned to Draco. "And you! With the hospitality we have shown you, you bring this into a place of God?"

Draco blanched. "I...er..."

"OUT!" Philip roared. "You have until noon!"

"But Philip--" Harold protested.

"You'll be leaving too. Congratulations, Mr. Potter. You've found yourself without a job!"

He paused on his way out the door. "Noon, gentlemen. I had better not see you on this property again, unless it is to beg forgiveness from the Lord."

* * *

It took Harold only an hour to clean out his house. Draco returned the monastic robes, borrowing a clean shirt and pair of pants from Harold's surprisingly large wardrobe.

Draco carried Harold's tools in a pack, while Harold carried the clothes, food, and bedrolls. Draco had offered to help, but Harold insisted. Well, that suited Draco just fine.

They were headed toward Kingsbridge. There was always work in Kingsbridge, Harold had said. "You'd make a lovely house servant," Harold smirked, pinching Draco's cheek. The primary draw, however, was that Kingsbridge was a large town, large enough that they could remain together without questions or pesky interfering monks.

"Harold," Draco started tentatively, "What do you think of me?"

Colour rose into Harold's cheeks, and a small grin spread across his face. "What do you mean?"

Draco blinked. When Harold blushed, he looked just exactly like Harry!

The revelation of ancestry was followed by a wave of guilt. He had adapted quickly to 1136. So quickly, in fact, he had almost forgotten about Harry. He swore an oath to himself that he would never forget Harry again, no matter whom he met in this time.

Everything was so different here. He felt so cut off from the world as he traveled. He only knew of two places in this dark time. When he was back home, he had had a plan. He knew what his life was going to be. Now, here, he had no idea what he was going to do. It was a bleak outlook, probably one that most of the people here shared.

All these ideas stewed about in Draco's head as they walked along the day's journey to Kingsbridge.

Harold must have noticed Draco's pensive mood. He slipped his hand into Draco's, interlacing their fingers, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. "What are you thinking about, Drake?"

Draco stopped walking. Filled with resolve, he made up his mind to let go of the past. Henceforth, he declared to himself, I shall be Drake Morning.

Harold sighed and dropped his bag. Draco blinked, his internal monologue ended. "What are you doing?"

Harold winked. "Gotta set up camp somewhere," he said

He pulled a blanket out of the pack and laid it out on the ground near the road. He pulled another blanket and threw it on top of the first. "There. A bed. Now, shall we use it?"

Well, it was getting dark, and Drake was very tired.

Then he saw the look in Harold's eyes, and all his weariness evaporated. His heart leaped into his throat, and suddenly all he wanted to do was feel Harold's bare flesh against his own. He lifted Harold's shirt, trailing his fingers along his exposed chest, savouring the warmth. He brought his face closer to his body as Harold lifted his shirt off. Drake ran the tip of his tongue along the heated flesh, raising goosebumps across Harold's arms and neck. Drake held him by the waist, lowering himself until he knelt on the ground before Harold. He looked up at Harold, as nervous as if it were his first time.

* * *

The dream lasted longer this time, for Harry. The Boy's hands appeared, holding an ancient wooden box. The box opened slowly, and a golden light shown out from the crack. It opened wider and the light grew, blocking from view The Boy, his hands, and even the box itself.

He woke up feeling like a million pounds sterling. He even took out his old sketchbook, filled with desire to draw.

He started drawing The Boy. What the hell, he figured. First the curve of the jaw, subdued by shadows. Next his chin, a tiny dimple giving character. The hair, styled exactly as Draco had (and which Harry had experience with drawing). The eyes he saved for last. The eyes were drawn with such fierce intensity that looking at it felt just like the dream did.

One last finishing touch--an upward-swept eyebrow, eternally cocked in intense curiosity--and the drawing was finished.

He tacked the drawing to the wall, and paused. The Boy needed a name. It would have to be something magnificent, something grandiose--he hastily scribbled 'Alexander' beneath the blank portion.

He smiled, his work completed, and sat back against the couch. His depression had lifted after nearly two months. He felt suddenly, truly hungry and a tad thirsty too. He opened the door and stepped out into the breezeway from his flat. He hopped into his car and headed for the grocery (finally), absolutely fixated on a real meal, with all the fixings, and--and perhaps he should head for a restaurant

He pulled some money out of the bank--he'd long since had his galleons converted into pounds, since his decision to live in the Muggle way--and headed down to the nearest Italian restaurant for a celebratory meal. Maybe now he could move on with his life now that the clouds had lifted. Maybe now he could stop thinking about the things that could never be.

He turned on the radio and set it to the American music station, on a whim.

_"For all those times you stood by me  
For all the truth that you made me see  
For all the joy you brought to my life  
For all the wrongs that you made right  
For every dream you made come true  
For all the love I found in you  
I'll be forever thankful, baby--"_

He switched the channel, upset, hoping he'd get something better.

_"And when no hope was left in sight  
On that starry, starry night  
You took your life as lovers often do  
But I could have told you, Vincent,  
This world was never meant for one  
As beautiful as you--"_

OK. So the world was out to get him. It wasn't the first time. He snapped the radio off and changed lanes, heading for the bar-and-grill up the street.

He walked in and asked the waiter for a table for one. The waiter smiled sadly. "Can I direct you to the bar instead, sir?"

Harry blinked. The restaurant was empty save for an elderly comfortably enjoying a meal together. "Fine, I guess."

The waiter led him to the back, and Harry sat at the bar, listening to the music.

_"All by myself  
Don't wanna be  
All by myself  
anymore--"_

That did it. Tears fell silently from Harry's eyes. As the song continued, he released his emotion in gasping sobs, letting go of the frustration, confusion, loneliness, and rage that had built over the past months. He buried his face in his hands as the singer finished her last chorus.

The next song brought Harry's tears to a close. It was his favourite.

_"Put on my blue suede shoes and I  
Boarded the plane  
Touched down in the land of the Delta blues  
In the middle of the pouring rain..."_

His tears subsided completely, enraptured by the song.

_"Saw the ghost of Elvis on Union Avenue..."_

The bartender came to Harry. "What can I get you?" His eyes were sympathetic, his accent Irish.

Harry thought for a moment. The song provided an answer. "Do you have catfish?"

The bartender chuckled. "Well, this is Eddie's _Louisiana_ Bar and Grill."

Harry smiled. "Catfish it is. Catfish and Bourbon."

The bartender smiled. "Good choice, I think."

Harry pondered the lyrics as he waited for his drink. _Do I really feel the way I feel?_ He wondered, whispering the question to himself quietly.

The bartender returned, setting the bourbon on a bar napkin. "You wanna talk about it?"

Harry nodded slowly. "My fiancée...died two months ago. I guess it hit me hard when I heard that song on the radio." It was essentially true. Draco wasn't coming back from...wherever he was.

The bartender nodded. "Was he beautiful?"

Harry nodded. "Yes, he--What?" He looked up. "How did you--"

He smiled. "Not many men cry when they hear Celine Dion sing 'All By Myself' you know."

Harry shrugged. "He was perfect. Now he's gone. And this isn't the first time something like this happened. It's almost like every time I get close to someone, they die. It's my curse." He looked back down into his drink.

The bartender put a hand on Harry's shoulder. "My boyfriend just left to work in the States. Now, it's not like death, but it hurts too." He pulled a pen out of his apron and scribbled a number on another bar napkin. "My name's Kyle O'Hanlon. If you need to talk about it, don't hesitate to call."

Harry nodded numbly, getting up from the bar.

Kyle blinked. "Don't you want your catfish? I've no problem eating it myself if you're not wanting it." he winked.

Harry looked dazed. "Can I have it in a box?"

Kyle nodded and winked again. "Just a moment, Harry."

That broke the haze. "How do you do it?"

Kyle smiled, and slid his apron aside, revealing the wand stowed in the pocket of his pants.

Harry nodded. "I suppose you'll want to see it, then." He sighed and parted his bangs. The scar was still there, as clear as ever, and Kyle nodded. Was that a bit of colour in his cheeks?

"Er--Harry, this is awkward, but you were my first wizard crush when I got to Hogwarts. I came in your fourth year, a Gryffindor. You probably don't remember. I'm from a Muggle family, I'd never heard of you till I saw you." The colour deepened slightly.

Harry nodded. "You know, a few years ago, I'd have told you to go away.

Kyle took a deep breath. "And now?"

Harry's eyes met his, and an honest smile came to his lips. "Now I'm just flattered that someone still cares."

Kyle held out the box of catfish, his eyes still locked to Harry's. "Twelve pounds tenpence," he whispered automatically.

Harry reached for his wallet, never breaking the eye contact. He pulled out a twenty-pound note and held it out.

Kyle reached for it, and Harry's other hand met his, closing it within. Kyle drew a sharp in take of breath at the mere thought of touching the Boy-Who-Lived.

Harry let go, breaking the silence. "Keep the change," he said, smiling softly as he left the restaurant.

Kyle wiped down the bar absently, humming to himself. "Ask me how do I feel... ask me now that we're softly caressing..."

e n d

* * *

A/N: I'd like to welcome my new beta to my writing, Sezza Rikda! The help is much appreciated. 

This was a short chapter; I guess I just didn't have as much to say in between. No matter. More to come, my pretties, more to come!


	3. Not a Marrying Man

**Chapter Three**

**Not A Marrying Man**

* * *

DISCLAIMER: Once again, nothing is mine except: a) the plot, b) Harold, c) Kyle, and d) various and sundry characters. Lawsuits not appreciated.

* * *

"It is our decision that you shall, henceforth, be Drake Morning, Earl of Countingham, for your service to your King and your Country. We thank you, Earl Countingham, and we are in your debt. May you go with the favour of God," finished King Stephen.

Drake smiled. He'd done it. He'd managed to get the earldom for his 'service' to the king in expelling the Empress Maud from her throne. He bowed before the King and headed out for the town square, where Harold was waiting for him.

Harold was sitting on a bench near the castle. Drake dashed to him, sitting next to him. He took Harold's hands. "We did it! We got the earldom!"

Harold wrenched free of Drake's grasp, turning away. "Great. Bloody fantastic." He was considerably less ecstatic.

Drake shook his blond head. "There's a problem? I'm an Earl, Harold. Nothing will ever be a problem."

Harold looked genuinely hurt. "And when you need heirs? What in the name of darkness am I supposed to do about that?"

Drake frowned. "But, Harold, you'll come to the Manor with me, right?"

Harold laughed sarcastically. "Sure. Why don't I just sleep at the foot of the bed while you and the Contessa frolick about. Sounds like great fun. I think not."

Drake had really become part of the time after all, he realized. "Don't be silly, it wouldn't be that way. You'd be--"

"--A consort?" Harold snapped. "A bloody sex toy you keep in the closet for fun and games? Not me."

Drake's eyes threatened tears. "We've been together ten months, through thick and thin, and you're going to abandon me now? What will I do without you?"

"I imagine you'll get on just fine." Harold stood up. "Now, if you'll excuse me, my dear, I've got to find a place to stay while you leave me behind."

Drake clung to him. "I'm not leaving you behind! I'm just--"

"Going in a different direction, right?" Harold put a hand on his hip. "One that doesn't involve me?"

Tears streamed down Drake's cheeks. "It doesn't have to be this way, Harold!"

"Oh, but it does!" Harold shouted, with no concern for Drake's feelings. "You've made sure of that." He turned to leave again. "I'll be staying at Winchester, Drake. Have a good life for me."

Drake watched him leave. "But I love you, Harold," he whispered, but it was too late. The man was already heading to the inn. Soon all Drake could see was the brown curls on his head as they bobbed up and down like waves on a guilty ocean.

* * *

Harry sat by the phone, looking back and forth between the handset and the napkin with Kyle's number.

Resolving himself, he pulled the phone off the hook and dialed the number.

"...Kyle? ... Hi, this is Harry...Yeah. Are you free tonight?..."

* * *

It was a lovely manor. It was designed in the best and most modern of styles, yet it was missing something.

It was missing Harold.

Drake stared into the fireplace, burying the emotions that threatened to rise up under his placid expression. He pushed the depression back to the dark recesses of his mind, trying to merely enjoy his house.

"--Sir?"

Drake jumped. "WHAT!" he barked.

The little serving girl was frightened. "Lord Morning, the Duke of Wittham is here, with his daughter, to see you."

Drake frowned. "They're two days early!" he sighed. "Too bad, they'll have to tolerate the lack of preparations. Get to the cook, girl, and have him start on dinner."

The girl curtsied. "Of course, sir. Where shall I put them?"

Drake frowned, thinking aloud. "Their rooms are not ready yet--Perhaps I should set them up with servants' quarters?" He paused. "No, I'll just have to leave them in the sitting room."

She prompted him. "The sitting room?"

Drake nodded. "Set them up there, and apologize for their rooms not being ready. Make it obvious that we were not ready for their arrival."

"--Sir?"

Drake sighed. "Tell them they're early. And send them to the sitting room."

She curtsied again and left. Drake sighed. "What will I do with these servants of mine?" He sank down into his chair. "Harold would know what was to be done."

* * *

"Hello?" Kyle opened the door.

Harry stood on the mat in front of Kyle's flat, holding out a bouquet of lilies. "Happy Birthday," he grinned.

"Oh!" Kyle gasped. "Lilies are my favourite!"

"Really? I hoped you'd like them."

Kyle adjusted his shirt nervously. "Did you find the place okay?"

Harry grinned, toying with Kyle's curly red hair. "Of course I did, love. Your directions were perfect." He hoped Kyle couldn't tell how nervous he was.

Kyle opened the door wider, to allow them both through. He gestured toward the living room. "I'll just put these in water. Make yourself comfortable."

Comfortable, Harry thought. I'm to make myself comfortable when I'm this nervous.

Kyle fussed about the kitchen, obviously putting finishing touches on the dinner he had prepared. Harry looked around the place, fascinated by the decor.

The flat was lovely. Kyle had somehow combined modern American design with traditional Irish styles, creating a beautiful marriage of tastes and colours.

Kyle was the epitome of beauty tonight, with a silk green shirt to complement his curly red hair. Harry watched happily as Kyle bustled around the kitchen, fussing over the meal with an adorably frantic manner.

Finally, everything was ready. "Dinner's done, Harry!" He gestured toward the small café-style table, set for two with a wine bucket in the center. Harry took a seat and Kyle brought the plates to the table.

Taking the seat opposite Harry, he uncorked the wine. "I didn't know what kind of wine you liked, or if you like it at all." He held up the bottle. "Do you take Merlot?"

Harry nodded. "I love Merlot."

Kyle smiled, pouring a glass for Harry, then one for himself. His deep chocolate eyes probed Harry's. "You look lovely this evening, Harry."

Harry broke the gaze, suddenly forgetting just exactly what he was wearing. He glanced down, remembering his cream shirt and crimson sweater. "Thank you," he whispered. "You do too."

Kyle blushed slightly. They clinked glasses, and each took a sip.

Harry looked at his food. A chicken breast, grilled, and garnished with crushed tomatoes and green beans. He took a bite from the chicken and found it to be delicious. He savoured it, chewing slowly.

"Is the meal all right?" Kyle sounded worried.

Harry nodded. "It's fantastic!" he said, taking a sip of wine.

Kyle smiled, taking a small bite.

They continued eating in silence, each unsure of what to say to the other. Harry broke the silence. "Kyle, why all this for me? Why not one of your good friends to celebrate with? I mean, I'm flattered, but I hardly know you!"

Kyle looked down at his plate. "Harry, I can't help it. It's like a dream of mine to be with you, and now it's coming true, even just for tonight. Really, I'm sure this is giving me more than you know."

Harry slowly lifted his wine to his lips, his eyes never leaving Kyle's. Taking a sip, he set the glass down. Kyle licked his lips nervously, a gesture which Harry found extremely attractive. Kyle slid out of his chair, laying his napkin on his plate. "Have I given you the tour of the flat?"

Harry shook his head, his heart starting to quicken.

Kyle led him down the hallway. "This is the hall..." He came to a stop at the door. "And this is the bedroom."

He opened the door, allowing Harry through. It was a lovely room, painted in a rich blue-purple with unbleached, unaltered woods creating a pleasing contrast. Kyle stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. He crossed the room to the bed, sitting down tentatively on the edge of it. Harry sat beside him taking his hand. "Are you sure?" Kyle's eyes seemed to ask.

Harry nodded. He unbuttoned Kyle's shirt slowly showing more and more of Kyle's slender chest. Feeling the excitement leap within him, Harry slid the shirt off his shoulders, tossing it gently to the floor. He sat back, admiring his body, from his freckled shoulders to his smooth abs--Kyle took Harry's hand, pressing it to his chest. Harry's heart quickened as he realised how warm his skin was, how quick his heart was too.

Kyle lifted Harry's sweater over his head, dropping it to the floor with the green shirt. He undid Harry's cream shirt, sliding down the sleeves so it fell to a pile on the bed. He gasped as he saw Harry's perfectly toned body, lean and muscular, as a golden afterglow filled the room. Harry stood, allowing Kyle to admire him. Kyle stood, drawing Harry close to him as he caressed Harry's smooth skin, gently stroking his arms.

Kyle reached for Harry's belt, unlatching it--he slid the belt off, tossing it aside, as he slid Harry's pants to his ankles. Harry helped him remove the pants entirely, then helped Kyle to remove his own trousers. Harry took Kyle's hand, leading him to the bed. He pulled back the deep purple sheets, turning to place a sensuous kiss on Kyle's lips before sliding into bed.

PBPBPBPB

"Thomas! It's good to see you, and so very early!" Drake put on his best 'welcome to my humble abode' smile and extended his hand.

Thomas, the Duke of Wittham was fat. Extremely fat. So much so that his great ghastly legs could barely hold him up, and he wheezed and panted at the slightest exertion. His daughter, Elizabeth Wittham, was lovely, charming, and an angel; the perfect housewife. This was exactly what Drake detested.

Thomas plopped down into a lovely overstuffed armchair, which creaked and whined as if there were no tomorrow. "Now then, Drake. Let's get to business!" he roared. "You're looking for a bride, I imagine, and I believe my daughter is a perfect match."

Drake smiled politely. "Yes, Thomas, but--"

"Elizabeth!" the Duke shouted, cutting Drake off completely. "Tell the Earl your, er, qualifications."

Elizabeth smiled and stood up. "I'm an expert seamstress, I've been taught to read Latin AND Greek, I'm well-versed in the Bible, I can cook for any occasion. I've been exposed to the pox, and pulled through without scar or circumstance--"

"Look, Elizabeth," Drake frowned, holding up his hand. "There is only one thing you need to do to become Lady Morning."

She looked up eagerly. "What?"

Drake put down his hand. "You must think for yourself."

She hesitated, glancing to the Duke.

Drake sighed. "No, Thomas. I'm afraid she won't do at all. Good day."

The Duke turned red. "Now, see here!" he sputtered.

Drake sighed, bored. "I mean that your daughter will not do, now do you wish to leave or do you require an escort?"

He snatched his daughter's hand. "We are on our way out, Earl Countingham," he scoffed disdainfully.

* * *

"Harry! Harry, wake up!"

Harry opened his eyes to a vibrant purple canopy above Kyle's bed. Kyle was standing by him, leaning close. He held Harry by the shoulders, with concern in his eyes. "You all right?"

Harry nodded, still in the haze of his dream. "What--What happened?"

Kyle stroked his hair. "You were thrashing about and you kept calling out somebody's name. It sounded like Rachel, but I didn't--"

"Draco." Harry knew immediately exactly what his dream had been.

Kyle nodded. "That sounds about right. Was he...?"

Harry's eyes misted as he fought back tears as the painful memory returned after a sojourn of nearly a month. "Yes. He was."

Kyle's face fell. He turned away from Harry. "Oh" was the only word he could manage to say.

Harry felt a pang of guilt in the pit of his stomach. "No, Kyle, it's not you." He stood up, following Kyle to the other side of the room. "I just have these nightmares every once in a while." He put his arms around Kyle's slender waist, nuzzling his neck.

Kyle sighed. "I'm sorry. I'm just a little cautious right now."

Harry slipped his hands into Kyle's, nibbling on Kyle's neck. "Can I move in with you?"

Kyle nodded. "Do you need anything from home?":

Harry shook his head, kissing down Kyle's shoulders. "I don't want to go back there."

Kyle smiled. "We'd better get you some clothes then. You could wear my shirts, but you're probably too tall for my jeans."

Harry grinned, tickling Kyle vigourously. Kyle burst into peals of laughter, trying to push Harry's hands away. Harry tackled him to the ground, laying kisses all across his laughing face.

* * *

The wedding had been two weeks ago. Drake had decided to marry Elizabeth anyway. She became Elizabeth Morning and did eaverything Drake wanted. She seemed to be even thinking for herself, with a little prodding. Ironically, the only thing she wasn't doing was bearing children; the reason he married her was to continue the line.

He longed for Harold's touch with a fierce desire, dreaming of him, thinking of his warm body around him. It really was the only thing that kept him waking up in the morning; he tried to find a way to reach Harry.

He sighed and headed to his wardrobe for his robe. Slipping on the well-groomed wool, he smiled and imagined Harold's strong arms. He twirled round as the skirt of his robe spun about in a lovely circle.

A piece of paper fluttered to the ground; Drake picked it up and glanced it over.

It was in his mother's hand. How was that possible? He hadn't brought anything along with him!

_My Dearest Son,_

_I trust that this letter finds you well. Your father and I arranged this little getaway for you. We decided you had been spending all too much time with that Potter boy, and decided that your disappearance from wizarding society was due to that boy's influence on you. _

_No, you won't be returning to this time. Your father has seen to that. Instead, you will live out your life in isolation from the rest of the world._

_It's a wonderful place, Old England. Your father and I shared our honeymoon here. We realized that if 'getting away from it all' was your desire, the twelfth century couldn't be a better place._

_Oh, now, don't be put out. Think on the positive side; we could have sent you through the Inquisition. And we wouldn't have taken your wand from you._

_Ever and Always,_

_Narcissa_

His hands shook with rage as he read the letter. He realized that he had to get a message to Harry, somehow. He crumpled the letter angrily, then paused as a thought occurred to him. He could write a letter to Harry!

How would the letter get there? He pondered over this for a while. His eyes fell upon a small wooden box sitting on his desk (designed by himself to create an eighteenth-century feel in a twelfth-century world) that seemed to serve almost no purpose. It was ornately decorated, and probably had held Elizabeth's jewelry at some point.

He sat behind his desk as his mind raced. He pulled out a piece of his finest parchment and hastily scratched a letter out to Harry. He paused as he prepared to sign his name; correcting himself, he signed 'Draco Malfoy' for the first time in--God, he didn't know how long. Finally he pressed his lips to the bottom. He knew Harry wouldn't see it, but he had the satisfaction of one last kiss.

He folded the letter and placed it inside the box. He sealed the box closed, stamping the box with the Morning family seal (made three weeks prior). He thought back remembering the day he had left. It had been warm that day, even hot. What was the christmas month? December. He chiseled a date in December on the top of the box, and placed it under the desk, promising himself that he would never forget.

His wife flung open the door, her face flushed. "Drake! Drake!"

Drake sighed. "What ails you, Elizabeth?"

Elizabeth was actually very pretty when excited, especially around her eyes. "A baby has come!"

Drake blinked. "You're with child?"

Elizabeth's eyes shown as she ran to her husband. Drake laughed, catching her in a warm embrace. "Darling, that's wonderful!"

Even though the child was indirectly at fault for Drake's loss of Harold, he couldn't help but feel giddy about the prospect of having a son or daughter.

He didn't know how it all worked! It suddenly struck him that he had never participated in a Muggle birth, let alone a birth without the modern conveniences!

A wave of panic hit. His children had to survive, the Morning name had to remain a fixture in England if Harry were ever to get his message. The birth HAD to go well.

He took a deep breath as his wife headed distractedly out of the office. If humans could be alive, they must have learned how to have babies on their own.

He decided that now was not the time for anthropological debates. He just hoped the baby would be all right.

e n d

**

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**

A/N: I'm really churning these chapters out, eh? Lucky you if you happen to be reading! Unlucky if you're not! Pooh! A pox on all your weasels!

Er, well, anyway, thanks for reading again. Love to all, see you soon.


	4. Time and Time Again

**Chapter Four**

**Time and Time Again**

* * *

Disclaimer: Not mine. Except some. Don't steal. Love me.

* * *

Harry awoke in Kyle's bed. He glanced at the clock--10:30.

Kyle came in from the next room. "Morning, Harry!" he grinned.

Harry scrubbed at his eyes. "Where are you going?" he mumbled.

Kyle buttoned his shirt. "I've got to go back to work, Harry. Christmas Holiday is over! There should be food in the fridge--"

"But I'll be bored stiff!" Harry frowned. "I need something to do."

Kyle thought. "Well, what did you do before you moved in with me?"

Harry sighed. "Skulked around the house, missing...Well..." Kyle turned a little pink as Harry's face fell. "I've got enough money to last me a lifetime! It's not like I have to work at all."

Kyle nodded. "I know what you mean. I've come into some money from my grandparents. I just go to the bar for something to do." A thought struck him. "Hey, maybe you can come work at Eddie's! Frank might let you go on as a waiter or something. Come with me and we'll see what he says.

They finished getting ready and headed downstairs to Kyle's lovely silver convertible. "Your grandparents must have been royalty," Harry muttered.

They headed up towards Eddie's.

Harry broke the long silence by turning on the radio.

_"Kiss me_

_under the broken treehouse..."_

Kyle giggled. "I love this song."

They pulled into the parking lot. Kyle stopped the car, and they both got out. Kyle opened the door to the restaurant for Harry, giggling. "After you, sir." Harry grinned.

Kyle led the way to the manager, an older man with a shining bald head and a bustling attitude, as if he always seemed in a hurry to do something else.

"Frank!" Kyle smiled at his boss. "Could you use a waiter?"

Frank checked his watch automatically. "Weekdays, eleven to three. Sound good?"

Harry nodded quickly.

Frank smiled hurriedly. "Frank Patterson."

Harry stuck out a hand. "Harry Potter."

Frank shook the hand. "Welcome to Eddies. Kyle, get him a uniform and pad."

Kyle nodded and Frank turned back to Harry. "Clock in. We'll get the paperwork filled out later. David will show you the ropes." He nodded to himself and headed away.

Harry took a deep breath. "What a character."

Kyle smiled. "Oh, you'll get used to him soon enough. He grows on you." He took Harry's arm. "We'd better get you dressed." He led him back to the wardrobe room. They stopped in the doorframe to the kitchen. Kyle pointed at the cook, working in the back to bake bread. "That's Piper Ridgeway in there." Passing the kitchen, they bumped into another waiter, which Harry recognized from his first visit. "Hiya, Kyle." He glanced at Harry, and did a double take. "I remember you. You work here now?" he asked with a smile.

Kyle put a protective arm around Harry's waist. "Back off, David," Kyle laughed. "He's all mine."

David snapped his fingers in mock sadness. "Pity. Well, good luck, you two. What's your name?"

Harry sighed, bracing for the worst. "Harry. Harry Potter."

David's eyes widened. "Not THE Harry Potter!"

Kyle grinned. "Yeah, David. THE Harry Potter."

David extended his hand. Reluctantly, Harry shook it. David grinned. "David Thomson. I went to Beauxbatons, myself, after the fiasco with Umbridge my parents decided I could stand to learn French and go away, but I heard a great deal about you from the Daily Prophet."

Harry bristled. "Don't believe everything you read."

David grinned. "Don't worry, I don't think you're mad. Pleasure to meet you."

Kyle pulled Harry away. "We've got to get him a uniform."

David smiled. "Welcome to Eddie's, Harry Potter."

Kyle and Harry continued to the wardrobe. "David seems nice."

Kyle rolled his eyes. "He fancies you."

Harry slipped an arm around his waist. "It's not the first time. It won't be the last."

Kyle frowned. "It's a good thing we don't wear hats."

Harry was puzzled. "What?"

"Otherwise, we wouldn't have one big enough for you."

Harry pushed him away. "You bastard!" he giggled.

Kyle grinned and pulled a black polo shirt and a black pair of pants, followed by a black apron. "Try these on," he said innocently.

Harry put the clothes on. Kyle drew the apron around his waist, tying it from behind. He put his arms around Harry's waist, kissing him on the neck. "Fits like a dream," he whispered.

A clock chimed. Kyle released Harry, blowing him a kiss as he left the room.

Harry went out to find David, who was to show him the 'ropes.'

He found him at the front counter. "David!" he hissed. "How do I--"

The front door opened and Harry froze. An older woman entered, followed by an older gentleman.

"Welcome to Eddie's Louisiana Bar and Grill," David said automatically. "Table for two?"

The man nodded. David jotted something down on a notepad. "Certainly. Harry will be your waiter this afternoon, if you'll follow me." David led the couple away, and Harry dashed to the bar. "Kyle! What do I do?"

Kyle laughed softly and set down the glass he had been cleaning. "You've got to get out there and take care of them, darling."

Harry sighed. "I don't know what to say!"

Kyle giggled. "Just welcome them, tell them your name, and get a drink order."

Harry took a deep breath and casually strolled (or tried to stroll) up to the customers' table. "Hi, and welcome to Eddie's. Erm, my name is Harry. Do you want a drink?"

* * *

Elizabeth was around her second trimester, maybe. Drake really couldn't be sure. Her belly was growing larger, and she was waited on hand and foot by the best Drake's money could buy. She really was the mother type, it seemed. She had transformed from a shy, awkward youth to the epitome of maternal beauty, grace, and poise.

Every time Drake thought about it, he got butterflies. He was going to be a father! He couldn't wait to see what the baby looked like.

He promised himself he wouldn't treat his baby the way his father had treated him. His baby would be loved.

* * *

"I'm going to pick up some dinner, Harry. What do you want?" Kyle grabbed the keys and pulled on a fleece jacket.

Harry's eyes were glued to the telly. "Surprise me," he mumbled.

Kyle's smile drooped. "You're not going to watch that while we eat, mark my words."

Harry nodded. "Yes, dear."

Kyle waved. "Love you, darling."

Harry nodded. "Love you too."

Kyle left and headed down to the car.

Harry's vision remained focused on the telly. A rerun was on the BBC-2, about a superhero who married an English woman and had no idea what 'polite society' was.

A gunshot went off in the breezeway. Harry flew out of his seat. He dashed out to the end of the hall and found Kyle crumpled on the floor, clutching at his chest.

Harry rolled him over, gently. Kyle was still alive, barely. He saw Harry and smiled. "You were right...about the people you..."

Harry's eyes welled with tears. "No, Kyle, you're not going to die. You'll be fine," he said shakily.

Kyle looked at his hand, bloody from clutching at the gunshot wound. "No, I don't think so..."

Harry held Kyle in his arms. "We can beat this, Kyle." Tears were running down his cheeks.

Kyle's eyes focused on a different point, behind Harry. "I love you..."

And then he was gone. After months of love and devotion, he was dead. Harry had no idea who would have done it to Kyle, of all people. He didn't have time to think about it. Pulling out his mobile, he dialed the police. "Hello?..." he paused."There's been a shooting..."

* * *

Drake sighed and put his hands in his head. The baby was late, and he didn't know what to do.

Harold would know--No. HARRY would know what to do. He shook his head. It was almost like Harry had faded to a distant memory, still on his mind, but somehow less important.

No, Drake couldn't let Harry recede too far into his memory. If he did, his whole reason for this life he was living--this life without Harry or Harold--was a waste.

* * *

It was a gracious funeral, as funerals go. Tears left trails down the cheeks of all, except Harry. He still didn't manage to understand that Kyle was dead. It didn't connect in his head, like something had shorted out in his mind. He had prepared a lovely speech, at the request of Mrs. O'Hanlon, who he had met a week or two before the funeral.

She had visited Harry at Kyle's apartment. She was an older woman, with fading red hair and a smile that looked identical to Kyle's. "Would you like to say a few words at the funeral, dear? I know how Kyle felt about ye," she had said in her thick Irish accent.

Harry had nodded dazedly. Mrs. O'Hanlon dabbed at her eyes automatically. "He loved ye, Harry. Ye must know that he did."

Harry had nodded, still distracted by the weight on his heart. "Thanks, Mrs. O'Hanlon. I wish I'd have met before all this. Kyle talked about you all the time."

Mrs. O'Hanlon dried her eyes again. "Many thanks to ye, Harry. The priest should call ye tomorrow." She had taken one last look around the flat, nodded, and turned to leave.

And Harry had found himself alone again; as always, the one person he was close to was gone.

The worst part, in Harry's opinion, was that Kyle had died without purpose. He hadn't been held hostage, he hadn't even been robbed, although that was how it seemed at first. As best as the police could tell, it was simply a crazed gunman, shooting at whatever moved. The hopelessness and uselessness of his death made Harry want to scream. Kyle had been the nicest person anyone could meet. How could anyone have wanted to take such a brilliant, happy individual away from the world?

The idea made Harry nauseous. He would need to leave Kyle's apartment and return to the house he had shared with Draco. He had nowhere else to live. The thought filled him with dread. He was sure the housekeeper still cleaned; at least, he still paid her, and his mobile would have rung if anything had come up.

He gathered up his own belongings and locked the flat's door on his way out. He paused, leaning on the doorframe, trying to draw strength from the building, clinging desperately to the frame as he closed another chapter of his life.

* * *

"Lord Morning!" The door to Drake's study flew open. An agitated servant stumbled inside, tripping on the stone floor. "The baby is coming!"

Drake jumped from his seat in front of his desk. "Don't just stand there, you fool! Take me to her!" he dashed for the door, heading straight for his wife's chambers.

She was already pushing the baby out! The midwife was laying a wet towel over Elizabeth's forehead.

The baby's head was beginning to show, and the midwife motioned to Drake. He crossed over and stood by his wife's side, taking her hand and letting her squeeze it as she pushed the baby out.

It felt like days stretched in the time it took the baby to be born. Finally the sounds of a baby's cry filled the room and Elizabeth smiled as she panted heavily. The midwife wiped the baby off and set him--for it was indeed, just as Drake had hoped, a 'him'--on her chest. Elizabeth laughed breathlessly, touching her baby's head with an almost childlike curiosity and wonder.

His cries ceased as he turned to see his father. It was uncanny; his large round eyes were wide open. He stared into his father's eyes curiously. Drake smiled at his son. It was most definitely his, for he had the pale skin and the extremely pale wisps of hair on top of his head. The baby was also much like Elizabeth especially around the eyes.

* * *

Harry had not adjusted well to life back in the house. The dreams of Draco returned with such a fervor that Harry began to dread sleeping again. There was so much mail from the months he had been gone. Other than that, things were almost exactly as he had left them, from the dirty laundry in Draco's hamper to the half-empty bottle of Scotch on the kitchen counter.

The futility of life had resumed its course. He'd quit his job at Eddie's and returned to a meaningless existence for a few months. He still thought about Kyle every day. It was all his fault! He should never have gotten to know him; the people he got close to were all dead.

He had no reason to live anymore.

Harry stood up from the sofa, heading for the bathroom, opening the cabinet. He dug through Draco's toiletries and pulled out Draco's beautiful razor blade. Draco had always preferred a naked blade to modern safety razors; Harry just hoped the blade was still sharp.

He drew a hot bath, clenching the blade's ivory handle in his fist. The tub filled up and Harry prepared himself.

The doorbell rang. Harry ignored it, drawing a deep breath.

The doorbell rang again. Harry swore violently and threw the razor to the ground. He stomped off toward the front door. Pulling the door open, he looked at his uninvited visitor.

Harry caught his breath. It was the boy from his dreams! His eyes burned into Harry's with a fire behind the golden irises.

"Are you Harry Potter?" his voice was rich and smooth.

Harry nodded dazedly. "Who are you?"

The boy bowed his head. "I'm Alex. Alex Morning."

Harry blinked. "Alexander?"

The boy nodded. "I'm supposed to give this to you." He handed an ancient wooden box to Harry. "Sorry, but you're something of a legend in my family. This box has been waiting for you since 1136."

_So that's where Draco went_! he thought. He felt his pulse rising as he broke the ancient wax seal pressed with a flourishing 'D. M.' He lifted the lid.

There was a small piece of parchment inside. Harry lifted it out gently as Alex watched, curious to know what the family was guarding for so many centuries.

Harry unfolded the parchment carefully, reading the words with his heart in his throat.

_My Dearest Harry,_

_I hope with all my heart that this message reaches you..._

( e n d s t o r y )

* * *

A/N: Well, this is it. The fourth—and final—chapter of Time and Time Again. Thanks for sticking through with it; it's been a pleasure to write this.

There's not much else to say, really. Thanks to everyone who helped me: Sezza, my darling beta, Ken Follett, for writing the book that inspired me, and Jane, my best friend.


End file.
